


Futile Tactics

by ShiningFrost



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crimson Flower, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-12-16 13:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiningFrost/pseuds/ShiningFrost
Summary: Bernadetta attempts to court Caspar. He’s not quite catching on.





	1. War’s End

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I’ll ship something that isn’t a rarepair.

Edelgard crushes Thales’s head with Aymr, and Those Who Slither in the Dark are defeated.

Byleth divides the troops against the stragglers retreating out of Shambhala onto the Hrym mountains. Bernadetta and Caspar are paired, like usual. Once, back when Bernadetta was simmering over Caspar hauling her around like a limp kitten, she had used a week’s worth of courage to ask why they were always together in battle. Byleth had responded that Caspar was loud and thus drew enemies away from her. The Professor had offered to alternate formations; Bernadetta had immediately backtracked.

Forests cover the mountains, so she dismounts from her horse and chases after Caspar on foot. He waits for her, an improvement from their Garreg Mach days when he rushed on ahead (and one that took years of training to sink in).

Together, they cut their enemies down without quarter. Caspar rushes in with his silver gauntlets; Bernadetta provides cover with arrows. She slips past enemy formations and takes out the mages, while Caspar holds the infantry from advancing towards her. Petra swoops in on her wyvern to smash fleeing enemy units, and from a distant vantage point, Linhardt soothes their wounds with soft healing magic.

It’s over in a flash.

When the last corpse crashes onto the floor, Petra flies back to Shambhala to report their success. Caspar shows no such singleminded desire to return to their commanders. Instead, he runs in a wide circle and punches the air. “WE DID IT!”

Bernadetta winces. “Shh, we’re on a mountain! What if you cause an avalanche that smushes us all?”

“Oops, sorry.” Caspar’s grin is sheepish. He might actually believe his shouting could doom the Adrestian empire. “I was excited, you know? We thought we were done when we unified Fódlan, and then these Slithering Dark bastards show up.”

“I get it. Just when we thought peace was on the horizon, more fighting comes.” Bernadetta pats the side of her pocket. Her fingers brush a small, curved protrusion. “Umm...what are your plans? Now that the war is over?”

“Edelgard keeps muttering about the Minister of Military Affairs.” Caspar shrugs. “Dunno how she’ll pry the title away from my old man. Thinking about traveling while she figures it out. What about you?”

“I, um...not sure. With my father locked up and my mother refusing to remarry, I guess there’s no hope of another heir to House Varley. Which would make me...“ Bernadetta gulps. In the rankings for The Worst Things That Can Happen to Bernie, becoming Countess Varley is on par with Those Who Slither in the Dark taking over the world

“The House leader! You’ll be a great one.”

“I know, it’s awful! I’ll doom House Varley into extinction — uh, what?”

Caspar gives her a thumbs up and nods. “You take the time to listen to people, and you work really hard! And you know lots about sewing, and painting, and all those noble hobbies.”

“Oh, um...thanks. F-for real. It means a lot.” It does, for other people to have faith in her when she has little in herself. Especially when it’s Caspar...

Bernadetta shoves her hand in her pocket and fumbles with the ring inside. A present from the current Countess Varley, her mother - should those labels be switched? Should she think of that woman as her mother first and the Countess second? Her mother rescued her from her father and supported Edelgard after his arrest.

But the same woman stood aside as Count Varley chained Bernadetta to the chair for hours. Said nothing when the Count beat her daughter for choosing the wrong utensil to start a meal.

Bernadetta’s feelings toward her mother are jumbled, but her admiration for the ring is not. It is a beautiful piece, with a brilliant amethyst inlaid into the golden band. Purple and gold, the colors of the House Varley heirs...and those who would join their family.

“Before we get off this mountain, I got a fantastic view for you.” Caspar holds out his hand. “Even better than the one you like so much at Garreg Mach.”

Bernadetta swallows.

Petra declared her a huntress. It felt good at the time, and when she’s with Petra she can believe it, but deep down Bernadetta knows she isn’t. She’s a coward.

Bernadetta leaves the ring in her pocket and grasps Caspar’s hand.

* * *

Caspar is gentle with her, as he always is now. It took five years to wring that promise out of him, but he’s stood by his word since. They return to Shambhala, passing other members of the Black Eagle Strike Force. One of them is a smirking Dorothea, who wiggles her eyebrows and mouths ‘good luck’ to her.

Bernadetta turns red, the deep crimson of the Adrestian empire, but she doesn’t let go of Caspar’s hand. So what if they’re holding hands? Lots of people do. Anyways, Caspar has a reputation famous for romantic obtuseness, so nobody watching will misconstrue anything. She hopes.

They climb. Bernadetta’s weary from the battle, but Caspar helps her up, lifting her and making sure she doesn’t fall. For her part, she can’t tell if she’s hyperventilating because of the thinning air or the feel of his hands on her.

“Here we are!”

Bernadetta, preoccupied with bemoaning that Caspar hadn’t shed any of his armor before this excursion, looks up. She gasps.

They stand on a ledge overlooking the entirety of Fódlan. Mountains, forests, deserts, tundras, grasslands - they all lay before her in sweeping, majestic arcs. Golden sunlight bathes the continent, shining through the wispy clouds. Garreg Mach is higher, but bar that one spot that was hers and Caspar’s secret, the mountains block the surrounding areas. This, here, is an unobstructed view of the unified continent they fought for.

“Garreg Mach’s over there.” Caspar points to the largest mountain range in the distance. “And Enbarr is that way, beyond those smaller peaks. Those green fields right there are Bergliez territory. And just beyond that, the brown patches - that’s your land!”

She takes a step forward. Caspar grabs her waist with both hands, perhaps to steady her but more likely to yank her back at any sign of her tumbling downward. It’s a testament to the beauty of the view that her reaction is limited to a slight shiver and a thunderous arrhythmia in her heart.

“Amazing view, right?” grins Caspar. His right cheek is bruised, the consequence of a bar fight he broke up the other day. Blood soaks his armor and mattes his hair. Some of it is scraping off on her own clothes. But the smile on his face...

“Y-yes.” Her head is hazy - is this what being drunk is like? “The best in Fódlan.”

* * *

Hubert is terrifying, the scariest person in Adrestia.

...well, it’s a tie between him and Edelgard, but the tiebreaker is whoever Bernadetta is facing. Which is currently Hubert.

He isn’t wearing the flower he does when talking to her alone (“It’s a matter of net gains. I will wear it for our private conversations, but maximizing my...intimidating presence is typically to my advantage”). Bernadetta plants her feet on the ground. They’re allies. She is over fleeing at the crackle of his evil sorcery in the air.

Hubert glances at her, and she clenches her teeth. Don’t run, don’t run...

...though would it be that bad if she did? It’s not like he’s even talking to her.

“Do you not want to be the Minister of Military Affairs?” asks Hubert. He hates his father, and Bernadetta hates him too, for ensuring Hubert’s adequate milk consumption as a child that made him the towering figure he is today. He’d be at least 1.7% less scary without all that looming.

“It’s not that I don’t,” says Caspar. “But since I’m not the heir, I’ve always assumed I wasn’t gonna have any important position. I haven’t done any training to be Minister.”

“Lifelong training has hardly improved your brother’s candidacy for the position.”

“That’s another thing...we sure he isn’t going to stab me in the back once he finds out? I mean, I can take him no problem. But if my father joins the fight...” Caspar shudders.

“He is still set to be heir to House Bergliez. With General Randolph dead and no risk of his title being taken, his paranoia should abate enough for him to be an adequate leader of your house. If not...” Hubert laughs, the horrific sound reverberating around the room. “His coveted position is no longer ironclad in the Emperor’s United Fodlan.”

“And you’re sure my father is retiring? What if this is an elaborate trap to catch me hungering after his position? And he’ll use it to as an excuse to challenge me to a duel to the death!”

“I implore you not to absorb Bernadetta’s persecution complex.”

Caspar, who’d been halfway through a yawn, snaps his head up. “Hey, Bernadetta doesn’t have a persecution complex!”

“Um, it’s okay. I kinda do.” She grabs the fabric of his jacket, ready to pull him back if he attempts to lunge at Hubert.

“Well...only a little! And if anything, it makes you better at keeping yourself and your soldiers safe!” Caspar glares at Hubert, who doesn’t bother looking up from his giant notebook.

“Onto other matters,” he says, turning a page. “We have defeated the main forces of Those Who Slither in the Dark, but remnants outside the stronghold may exist. As such, my agents will provide protection for you while we confirm their complete annihilation. Will you two be staying together in Varley territory or Bergliez?”

Bernadetta gapes.

As is typical, Caspar is unfazed. “Bernadetta will stay in Varley and I’ll be in Bergliez. Duh. Did you hit your head?”

Hubert tilts his head the slightest fraction. “You two are not living together?”

“N-nope!” squeaks Bernadetta. “Definitely not! B-Bernie needs her own room, with her needles and her flytraps and her locks!”

“I mean, I guess we could,” says Caspar. Bernadetta jabs him with her elbow. It hits his armor and bounces off, and he doesn’t seem to notice. “Our territories are next to each other, so if we had a house in the middle it would make sense. Kinda a long walk back to our main houses for the day to day stuff though.”

Hubert purses his lips and stares hard at Bernadetta. She holds out as long as she can, which turns out to be eleven seconds, before she rushes behind Caspar and huddles in his shadow. He’s only two inches taller than her, but he’s broad enough to hide her from Hubert.

Unfortunately, Caspar isn’t big enough to block out sound waves.

“Did we miscalculate?” Hubert almost sounds confused, if the Left Hand of the Emperor was ever capable of such. “The Emperor is under the impression that you two would be cohabiting after the war.”

That’s it. She’s reached it, the final boss of Utter Embarrassment. Loosening arrows at former comrades, fighting against Those Who Slither in the Dark, Sylvain reading her stories — she’d rather relive them all than be here.

“Dunno where she got that idea,” says Caspar, puzzled.

Bernadetta shrinks down further.

“Why is Edelgard even thinking about stuff like this?”

“I had calculated the disposition of my troops based on the assumption you would be living together. Guarding against two locations stretches my forces out farther than guarding against one.”

“Oh. Well if it’s that big a deal, me and Bernadetta can work it out.”

The fire from the torches crackles, and Bernadetta sweats as the silence stretches. She risks peering over Caspar’s shoulder to catch Hubert’s expression. He’s looking straight at her as her head rises, and Bernadetta immediately ducks back down.

After a long pause in which Bernadetta attempts to choke on the hot and heavy air, Hubert says, “Never mind. I will rearrange my agents.”


	2. Visiting Brigid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was expecting maybe five people total to read the last chapter, so I was blown away by the responses. Thank you so much, I'm so glad I'm not alone waving the flag of this ship!

“I am having much joy that you would visit me.”

Petra bows formally, her right arm in front and her left behind. Bernadetta returns the bow. Caspar, who Bernadetta had seen bow twice (both times shakily to his father), knocks on a statue.

“Is this solid gold?”

“C-Caspar, you can’t go around touching stuff! Shamans here place curses on valuable objects to make thieves shrivel into blackened corpses!”

“I am not minding his curiosity.” Petra places a hand on the eagle statue as Caspar yanks his own back. “It is a gift from the Emperor, for my service in the war. I am not having the time to apply curses yet.”

Petra smiles, so Bernadetta _thinks_ this is a joke.

“She was wanting me to sell it, to be using the money for Brigid. But it is a gift. I will be treasuring it.”

“Speaking of gifts,” says Caspar, fishing a small package from his bag. “Hubert wanted us to give this to you.”

Petra’s face lights up. She accepts the package with two hands and unties the bow with quick, deft fingers.

“He says he’ll visit next week.” Bernadetta studies Petra’s expression. It’s soft and tender. “He had an unexpected opportunity with Count Essar. He’s sure he can secure trading pacts between House Essar and Brigid, and he wanted to finalize them first.”

“He is always working hard for Fódlan.” The wrapping falls apart, revealing a silver dagger. Unlike the minimalist weapons they used in the war, designs of ocean waves are etched on the blade and emeralds stud the hilt. It’s a gorgeous piece, commissioned from the finest, and most expensive, blacksmith in Adrestia. Petra holds it reverently. “This is having such beauty! It is filling my heart with happiness.”

“Awww, Petra.” Bernadetta scooches closer to Petra and hugs her. “You deserve it. You both do.” Petra is a scary assassin who can skewer an enemy’s eyeball with an arrow at a hundred feet, but even scary assassins deserve happiness and love. And who better than a scary sorcerer? “I knows he feels the same. You’re loyal to the Empire already. There’s no advantage to Edelgard from the union, but he agreed to it anyways!”

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Y-you know. Hubert. And Petra.”

Caspar’s face is blank.

“...oh, forget it.” Bernadetta slinks on a well-cushioned couch. Caspar runs a hand through his hair, confusion plastered on his face. It would be adorable if Bernadetta hadn’t spent years attempting to get him to pick up on any romantic signals at all. Even him recognizing it in others would be an improvement.

“Do not be worrying, Bernie.” Petra pats her on the shoulder. “He will be seeing your heart eventually. A turtle hatchling may be escaping the lizards and the eagles and the crabs, but he cannot be escaping the ocean waves.”

“What — no — I’m not a turtle, no one’s a turtle! Bernie eats turtles! I mean, I don’t, that’s weird — er, but I’d totally eat them if that’s what you do here — bet they’re delicious! ”

Petra laughs. Bernadetta buries her head into a cushion, her mind whirring like branches in a tornado. Petra knows!? Hubert is somewhat understandable; his job relies on accumulation of information. But Petra!? Petra isn’t one for gossip, for whispered rumors. The Empire couldn’t possibly benefit from Petra knowing such pointless speculation so Hubert wouldn’t have any reason to share. How does she —

Emeralds glitter as Petra secures the dagger in the braids of her hair. Green eyes flash in Bernadetta’s mind.

...of course.

Dorothea.

Bernadetta scowls. Do shaman’s curses work overseas? The songstress’s transgressions might not warrant a permanent solution like murder, but a nice stomachache would be good for her.

* * *

Petra is queen, and queens have to cover emergencies. Petra apologizes for the poor timing and says she’ll see them at dinner. In the mean time, she bids them to tour Brigid’s pristine beaches.

Bernadetta sits on a bench waiting for Caspar to finish changing. Clutching her towel against her, she fidgets in her swimsuit. She isn’t comfortable in a swimsuit, especially these skimpy ones cut in the Brigid style. Her father wouldn’t have murdered her for wearing one, but he would have doubled her time spent chained to that awful chair.

“Noble families have standards for their women. You will conduct yourself as a noble wife should, and that means you will keep quiet and not dress like a common whore.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“I wasn’t talking!” protests Caspar.

“No not—“

Her mouth drops open.

Caspar von Bergliez is attractive. Bernadetta’s uncomfortably aware of that fact - and even if she wasn’t, she had ears. Dorothea and Manuela never take the precautions of whispering when ranking the attractiveness of their male compatriots.

They’ve never seen Caspar with his chest bare, with his biceps and thighs exposed, otherwise he would be at the top. He’s fit - they all are - but without his armor he’s a god, a mirrors of the statues of ancient legends her father commissioned. His shoulders are broad, his chest sculpted, his abdomen devoid of fat. His arms are clasped above his head as he stretches. Caspar’s body ripples with the motion, a tightening and loosening of the muscles that causes a dribble of saliva to run out of Bernadetta’s still-open mouth.

She wants to feel that body against her own. Wants to run her hands against his abs, to feel how hard those muscles must be. Wants to rip apart his swimming trunks, the last barrier to—

“Eep! Away, ghoulish thoughts, to the graveyard with you! I am NOT a perv!”

“I...didn’t say you were?” Caspar puts a hand on his hips, bringing Bernadetta’s attention to the angular bone dipping beneath the fabric. “Has anyone been calling you one!? Lemme know where, I’ll show them what happens when they insult an innocent woman!” He balls his hands into fists and swings his head around, searching for the culprit.

“Um, no! I was, um, thinking of how stressful to, uh, be Sylvain it must be. Y-you know, having to be so defensive with everyone calling him a creepy stalker all the time.”

Caspar lowers his hands. “He kinda deserves it.”

“D-definitely,” she squeaks. “S-shall we be off?

She takes his hand (“s-so we don’t get separated”) and yanks him down the road.

“Woah, what happened to gentle?”

“That’s for your treatment of me, not the other way around!”

A family approaches them on the street. Bernadetta accidentally locks eyes with the mother and is forced to smile awkwardly. The woman nods and returns the gesture with a much warmer smile. She swivels her head, presumably to give the same to Caspar —

And freezes.

The mother gathers her children in her arms and snaps at them with sharp words when the son resists. Bernadetta doesn’t understand the language, but she’s an expert at recognizing panic. The woman rushes to the other side of the street and scurries away.

Weird.

“Oh no, Petra didn’t brief us on cultural differences between Brigid and Fódlan,” wails Bernadetta. “And look, we’re already offending people! We’re going to cause an international incident. Edelgard’ll throw a fit! If Hubert doesn’t send assassins to kill us first. Do you think they’ll use poison or...”

Her voice trails off when she registers the expression on Caspar’s face. It’s unusually somber.

“I look like my father.” He rubs the back of his neck. “He’s not popular here. The locals have reason to hate me.”

Oh. Right. Fódlan wasn’t peaceful even before Edelgard’s wars. Caspar’s father was - is? - the most feared general in Adrestia. Count Bergliez has always been kind to Bernadetta in the few times they’ve met, but his reputation was fearsome enough that she had locked herself in her room when he visited the Varley mansion, forcing her father to break the door down with an axe.

Bernadetta gingerly touches Caspar’s arm. “You’re not your father. We aren’t defined by our family. G-goddess knows, if I was like my father, I’d be in jail!”

“I know,” he sighs. “I just...we’ve been friends with Petra so long I kinda forgot how the rest of Brigid feels towards my father - and by extension, me. Anyways, don’t worry it. Let’s go to the ocean!” He shakes his head and, mustering false bravado, marches forward.

Frowning, Bernadetta trails after him. She’s used to being uncomfortable anywhere outside her room, but Caspar takes awkward situations in stride. She’s never seen him this disconcerted, and she hates it. Caspar should be jumping into new experiences, self-assured and uncaring of being the fool. How could she get that Caspar back...

Bernadetta tugs Caspar towards a market stall. “Ferdinand said one of the main dishes here is shredded meat cooked in an underground oven. I’m hungry. Let’s go try it!”

* * *

The stall owner draws back when they approach. He seems prepared to take the fight option in the fight or flight response, but Bernadetta ‘accidentally’ spills her money pouch. Gold coins tumble out in cascading clinks. It’s enough to feed a family for a year. The owner backs down and forces a strained grimace that is probably the closest to faking happiness Bernadetta will get while in Caspar’s presence. She’ll take it.

Caspar doesn’t notice the owner’s antagonism - or at least pretends not to. He points excitedly to the ribs soaked in thick sauce, to the shredded pork nestled in large leaves, to the beef patty topped with a fried egg and served over rice. He’s left his money at Petra’s palace, so he’s reliant on Bernadetta’s generosity. She buys two of every dish. Caspar promises to pay her back; Bernadetta replies not to worry about it, turning her head so he doesn’t see the blush caused by an evil internal voice whispering ‘_there are other ways you can pay me back_’.

They make their way to the beach. The locals give them a wide berth, which suits her fine. When the beach is in sight, Caspar rushes on ahead and, laughing, Bernadetta races him, beating him to their destination.

If only she had brought her art supplies. She wants to remember these sights forever, wants to immortalize him in her paintings to look at again and again. Caspar, with the sun shining on the wet hair plastered to his face. With a giant grin as he chases turtles on the beach. With water running down his muscles in small trickles. With his wet swimming trucks clinging to his body, clearly outlining his length...

Bernadetta’s blush is a permanent fixture that day.


	3. Caspar’s Birthday

Caspar’s birthday is a boisterous affair. He’s not an extravagant man; his past birthdays were simple gatherings consisting of heaps of meat. However, with his new position comes certain requirements, and after losing their esteemed General Randolph, House Bergliez is eager to show their strength.

Thus, his birthday is a grand celebration in House Bergliez’s main mansion. Caspar’s brother, the new Count Bergliez, has spared no expense. Colorful tapestries drape over the windows amidst lush flowers and glittering chandeliers. The chefs keep the banquet hall overflowing with spiced meats, savory breads and fragrant stews. There’s a brawling ring, and an archery tournament, and crackling fireworks. Bernadetta even hears the distant roars of what sounds like very large animals - apparently, the new Count has imported exotic animals for display. She stays away from that room.

As is tradition for any gathering involving the Noble Houses of Adrestia, there’s a dance. Manuela announces the time with bright eyes and a rich voice as she takes center stage, preparing to serenade the room that will soon be full of dancing couples.

Dancing is not Bernadetta’s thing. She’s taken poisonous mushrooms and hired Bernie look-a-likes to avoid the formal dances so commonplace among the nobles. She hates it, runs from it, wishes Edelgard would abolish the outdated tradition like she has so many others.

And she’s been practicing.

In an isolated corner, Bernadetta cowers between two torches, watching Caspar complain that Byleth should’ve chosen him for the Heron Cup. She’d spent most of her time so far hiding behind Felix, who seems to be the only other person in Fódlan with a rational outlook towards parties, but he’d been dragged off by Annette after Manuela’s announcement.

Bernadetta wrings her hands together, gripping herself tightly to stop herself from implementing her exit strategy (stuffing her hidden vomit-inducing herbs into her mouth). She has to make a move, and soon. Caspar is popular. Even if he didn’t have his genuine enthusiasm and sense of justice and lean, muscled body, he is now the Minister of Military Affairs. Suitors will claw after him, eager for a chance to improve their station with one of the most powerful people in Fódlan.

...she can’t move. Caspar gesticulates wildly in protestation as Dorothea, loudly but with a teasing smile, proclaims her skepticism at his skill. Ferdinand launches into a speech at how dancing is the noblest of noble activities and veers off into the importance of dancing in Adrestian history. Linhardt interjects to correct him on the year the Nuvellan Tango was invented.

She’s going to faint. All the signs are there - the pulsating pressure in her head, the sweat dripping in waves down her silk dress. She should move away from the oppressive heat of the flickering torches, but her feet refuse to follow her brain. Oh no, are her nerves no longer working!?

Bernadetta flails her head, looking desperately at the crowds thinning as the partygoers divide into pairs. The Professor stands at her normal place beside Edelgard. Their eyes meet. Byleth nods. Her face is expressionless as always, but the pounding in Bernadetta’s heart slows. Somehow, in spite of Byleth’s curt responses and quiet demeanor, she gives Bernadetta the courage to face her fears.

Bernadetta takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. She’s faced hostile soldiers and demonic beasts and an angry Ingrid. Her arrow killed Seteth. She can ask one man for one dance.

She turns back and puts a determined foot forward, ready to face humiliation. If she was rejected, she could pretend her food had been spiked with hallucinogens and blame her behavior on that...yeah, that could work! Blame nefarious agents working to take down the Empire! Maybe Hubert would stop the party to secure the perimeter.

After a mere half foot’s progress towards the distant group, Bernadetta abruptly stops.

...where’d he go? Dorothea and Ferdinand are in the crowd; Linhardt, yawning, heads towards a bench. Caspar is nowhere in sight. Oh no, was she too late!? Some charlatan’s dragged him off into a hallway, putting her filthy hands on—

“Hey Bernadetta, I was wondering where you went!”

“EEP!”

Caspar catches her before she smacks into a torch and ends the evening in a mass of burned flesh. He pulls her away from the flames, drawing her close to him.

“Sorry, sorry!”

“W-why’re you sneaking up on me!? What have I done to deserve this? Raphael ate the last of the smoked salmon, not me!”

“He did!?” Caspar lets go. She yanks herself away as if he could burn her like the torches would. “My brother imported that specially from Derdiru and I only got two plates! I’m gonna — wait, no, I’ll do that later.”

He takes hold of her again, and this is it. This is how Bernadetta dies. She’s survived an abusive father and seven years of war, only to perish when Caspar’s large hands grab her waist.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s dance!”

Without waiting for her stuttered affirmative, he takes her to the center with the other pairs. They find an open spot to wait as the last of the musicians take their place. Bernadetta inches closer to Caspar. He rarely wears clothes that aren’t his battle armor. Without the cold metal in the way, she can feel his muscled chest through the fine silks.

Caspar slides his hand down her waist to rest at her hip. Bernadetta’s breath catches. She’s caught between running away from him, the cause of this cursed heat in her body, and pulling him closer to find out just how hot she can get.

“I looked all over for you,” he says, drumming his fingers on her hip. “Couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I-I don’t like parties.” At Caspar’s crestfallen look, Bernadetta hastily adds, “B-but if I had to go to one, I-I’d choose yours! The food was delicious.”

Caspar recovers his good mood and grins. “The pasta salad, right? I knew you’d like that. My brother only wanted mountains of meat, but I wanted to be sure you had your favorite dish.”

A violinist plays a long note. Manuela raises her head and sings. The crowd moves.

Caspar is a good dancer. Bernadetta is not. Despite the hours practicing dancing (courtesy of her mother, who had promptly hired seven tutors in her eagerness to take advantage of Bernadetta’s rare interest in the noble arts), she’s forgotten the steps.

But he leads her with patience and care and laughs off her mistakes. They don’t execute the dance perfectly, but it’s...fun, turning and twisting and swaying in time to the beats of the melodious music. Her skin tingles from where his hands touched her body, caressing her with gentle fingers that belies his rowdy personality.

For the first time in her life, Bernadetta enjoys dancing. She dances with Caspar for the next song, and the song after that too. She’d have continued dancing with him for as long he’d let her, but she catches a glimpse of her mother. Countess Varley stands tall and proud with her arms crossed, watching them with the satisfied, predatory expression that Felix dons when he beats another master swordsman.

Bernadetta leaps away from Caspar. “T-that was fun! But I, uh, better see to all my chickens. Um, no, I m-meant friends. Gotta make sure they’re all watered!”

Caspar blinks. “Oh, uh...okay then.” He frowns, then shakes his head and offers her his typical warm smile. “I’ll see you afterwards?”

“Y-yeah, definitely!” Don’t look at mother, don’t look at mother...

Bernadetta rushes away from a confused Caspar and her disappointed mother and grabs her closest friend - Ferdinand, who dances with graceful, dramatic movements. Next is Ingrid, whose grasp of the dances is as poor as Bernadetta’s own, and they end up improvising one that is half a spearman’s warmup exercise. Bernadetta dances a slow, sleepy dance with Linhardt, who was dragged away from the bench by his stern father. The only one Bernadetta regrets is Dorothea. Dancing is infinitely more stressful when one’s partner whispers in a sultry drawl, “well now, you were standing rather closer to Caspar than is traditional. Good job, Bernie!” and “Caspar’s hands do like to wander, don’t they? If they’d gotten any lower on you, we’d have had to evacuate the children.“

In spite of the hiccup that is Dorothea, Bernadetta has fun dancing with her friends. When the music stops, she feels a surprising twinge of regret as she releases Byleth.

But there are upsides. Countess Varley left the room during the last dance, so the clearing is safe. Bernadetta scans the crowd for Caspar and spots him chatting to Dorothea and Ferdinand.

“I should’ve chosen you for the Heron Cup after all.”

“D-don’t give me more fuel for my nightmares!” squeals Bernadetta, whipping her head around to glare at the Professor. “I had to pile all my furniture against the door to make sure you couldn’t come in to ask me!”

Byleth’s lip twitches. “I almost admire your past dedication to your seclusion.” A pause, then, “You’ll have to tell him. He’s not going to realize on his own.”

Bernadetta chokes on her spit and doubles over, gasping for air. Byleth, expression neutral, procures a glass of water from a server and hands it to her. Bernadetta gulps down the water, ingesting more than she needs as she plays for time.

The Professor can’t know. No way. She hadn’t displayed any interest in following the entangling webs of romance that had followed their war camp for seven years. Which, okay, Byleth doesn’t display much outward interest towards anything, or any emotions in general, but still. Bernadetta has to be projecting.

Cool. She can play it cool. Like Shamir.

“I-I don’t know what you mean!” she yelps, holding her hands up in a surrendering position.

“Him.” Byleth extends her arm.

Mumbling a prayer to the Goddess for her mercy, Bernadetta follows Byleth’s finger. It’s pointed at Caspar, and Bernadetta’s gaze lands on him just in time to see him swing his arm back and punch Ferdinand in the mouth.

* * *

Ferdinand is excellent at the lance and decent at the axe. He has little experience in hand to hand combat and no natural talent at it, though if pressed he would scoff and declare it a useless skill. After all, what true noble would ever be caught brawling in the streets?

And so, with little effort, Caspar lands two quick punches before a staggering Ferdinand attempts a wild punch that misses by a mile. Caspar manages a third hit before Ingrid, who is both fast and used to policing brainless behavior courtesy of Sylvain, pulls the two apart.

“And to think he is Minister of Military Affairs!” exclaims Ferdinand. The bruise on his jaw hasn’t hampered his ability to talk. Bernadetta suspects a beheading wouldn’t stop him. “Yet another oversight by Edelgard. He clearly does not have the temperament for such an esteemed position.”

Bernadetta sits at the edge of his bed, wrapping and unwrapping her hand with the bandages Manuela left behind. The doctor would be in Caspar’s room now. Completely unnecessarily, since Caspar wasn’t hurt, but Manuela undoubtedly wanted to listen in on Edelgard yelling at him.

Bernadetta wants to be there yelling at him too, but Edelgard would do a better job than she could. And though she might be stupidly and against all better judgment in love with Caspar (the embroidered prayers she burned nightly begging the goddess to rid her of this curse had yet to be answered), he literally threw the first punch. Not everyone knows her feelings. Like...Felix probably doesn’t. If she went to Caspar over comforting Ferdinand, the rest of the holdouts might catch on. It’s embarrassing enough knowing Hubert knows. No one else needs to.

“He has failed to learn restraint after seven years of war! And Edelgard gives him control over our armies. Preposterous, has she no idea—”

“Caspar doesn’t attack people for no reason,” says Bernadetta. Thirty unanswered minutes letting Ferdinand vent should be enough. “He’s the type to punch bad guys who cut off kitten tails. Punching innocent bystanders is a no-no.”

“Are you insinuating that I provoked this attack!?” Ferdinand sounds insulted, like she had attacked the nobility of the Prime Minister position. She should’ve waited forty minutes.

“You do, um, tend to be...” Bernadetta twirls the bandage around her finger. There was that one battle where, after Ferdinand’s umpteenth declaration of “I am Ferdinand von Aegir” (which he insisted on proclaiming every time he fought), Lysithea had muttered “and you’ll be the last in the von Aegir line“ with a gleam in her eye and a disturbing, black penumbra surrounding her. Luckily she spoke loudly enough to be overheard by Raphael, who pulled her back. Goddess knew Bernadetta wasn’t getting in between a fireball-holding Lysithea and her target.

But being irritating doesn’t justify getting attacked. Besides, Caspar is best friends with Linhardt, so he has a high tolerance for annoying behavior.

“I cannot imagine what slight I could have performed against him.” Ferdinand crosses his arms. “I barely see the man! And you are usually with him when I do. You would have born witness to any insult I might have given.”

Bernadetta draws her mind back. Caspar and Ferdinand aren’t the best of friends, but they don’t argue either. “Hmm...I’d have to double check my journal.” In that journal is an extensive record of Caspar’s actions and words that would make Hanneman proud (for the studious nature of the research, if not the topic). But at the top of her head, she doesn’t recall any grievous wrong Ferdinand had done to Caspar....and if he had, Caspar wouldn’t wait more than six seconds to get revenge.

“Um...well, what were you talking about?”

“Unimportant chatter.” Ferdinand waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Discussions on who’ll marry next after Edelgard and the Professor. Dorothea laughed about some promise she made with Caspar to marry each other if they were both single in a decade.”

Fabric rips. The bandages fall apart in Bernadetta’s hands. She blinks at them, hands shaking, then looks back up to Ferdinand. “Um. Sorry, what? I blanked out.”

“Some minor teasing. You know how Dorothea is.”

Bernadetta’s brain catches up to what her ears heard and she stands with a gasp. That...that traitorous vixen! Betrayal from within!

Oh no...Dorothea is perfect, with her forceful personality and lustful eyes and melodic voice. If one person exists to drag Caspar out of his obliviousness towards romance, it’s Dorothea. Count Varley would’ve killed for men to salivate at Bernadetta the way they do for Dorothea. What can Bernadetta do against someone like that?

Maybe a...a duel! Caspar likes those. She can stand on top of Dorothea’s battered body, striking a victorious pose to win him over.

Oh, but...she likes Dorothea. Dorothea is kind and generous and brave. Dorothea had brought her stir fry when she had been caught up on weed duty and had missed dinner. Dorothea had cozied up to that noble patron and secured her replacement paints after Caspar’s cat had knocked her own over. Dorothea had shot a Meteor at Sylvain when he’d attempted to swipe the next chapter of her story from her room. Dorothea is all that is good in the world, all that Bernadetta wishes she could be.

(also, Dorothea keeps up with Felix in swordplay, so this is not a woman Bernadetta wants to be challenging)

...no, if Dorothea and Caspar want to be together, Bernadetta has to give them her blessing. She loves them both.

But she’ll have to leave Fodlan. She can’t stay on the continent with the two happy lovebirds. Already an icy hand clutches at her heart, squeezing it dry. If she stays, she’ll become a wandering hermit self-destructively plotting revenge.

“Then afterwards,” continues Ferdinand, “Caspar rolled his eyes and said no chance.”

Bernadetta pauses midway through her fantasy of living as a spinster on Brigid, training with shamans to learn magic that would whip up her flytraps and pitcher plants to roam around her house for protection. “He...he did?”

“Rather rudely. In fact, that is another of his faults! He fails to treat women with the dignity they deserve.“

Reality crashes back down on Bernadetta. She slinks on the chair, catching her breath. Right. Dorothea doesn’t have any romantic interest in Caspar. She knows this, everyone knows this. Dorothea’s eye is on...

“She might be less, uh...flirtatious with other men if you, you know...” Ugh, her skill in sagely advice is on par her dancing ability. Where’s Mercedes when you need her? “...hurried up.”

Ferdinand rubs his temple. “I am aware. But my father’s crimes haunt the von Aegir name still. It would be selfish to bring another into my House until I have done enough to dispel the shadow he wrought.”

Bernadetta suspects Dorothea cares little of what others, especially nobles, think of her, but Ferdinand cares.

“I will admit I was somewhat irked by her words. I mentioned my prior engagement to you.”

“W-why!?’

“It seemed on topic. Is the thought that embarrassing?” The look he gives her is that of a wounded puppy.

...she prefers cats.

“I-it’s awful!” Bernadetta groans, covering her face with her hands. With her luck, Caspar was paying the normal attention he did for idle romantic gossip and would walk away from that conversation thinking she was currently engaged to Ferdinand. “D-don’t leave it there! What happened next?”

“Nothing happened.”

Bernadetta opens her fingers an inch, squinting at Ferdinand. “Eh?”

“That is when Caspar brutishly assaulted me.”

“That’s...when he punched you?”

“That is what I said. Bernadetta, are you feeling well? You are usually a more astute listener.”

“I’m fine!” It’s not a lie. A pleasant warmth has settled on her heart. “Good. Great!”

Ferdinand narrows his eyes at her. “Why are you smiling?”

“I-I’m not!” She chucks the bandages at Ferdinand’s head. “Y-you can’t prove it! Bernie’s an indecipherable puzzle!”

* * *

“If you’re gonna lecture me,” says Caspar, glowering at the largest stack of paperwork Bernadetta’s ever seen, “don’t bother. Between Edelgard, Hubert, Byleth, and my father, everything’s been covered.”

Bernadetta picks up the top sheet of paper.

_The annual rainfall over my territory this past year was 25 inches, as opposed to the decade’s average of 28. As such, I beseech the Empire to consider increasing my allocation of the Dacloy river for irrigation. As you well know, my territory is Fódlan's premier apple producer, and without my crops..._

She drops it back on the pile. “That bad?”

“This isn’t all the paperwork I’m stuck with, it’s just all that Hubert had handy.”

“You kinda deserve it.” Bernadetta winces as her words escape. Bad Bernie, bad! No one likes the nagging harpy!

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have punched him.“ Caspar stalks to one side of the office with short, quick steps, then doubles back. “But he was being so annoying, I couldn’t help myself! I don’t get what everyone sees in him. Hilda was always going on and on about his...“

He spins around suddenly and sweeps up to her. “Do you think he’s good looking?”

Startled - Caspar’s eyes, usually so genial and inviting, are sharp and angry - Bernadetta says the first thing on her mind. Unfortunately, those words are “he’s pretty handsome.”

Caspar’s face darkens.

“N-needs a haircut though!” backtracks Bernadetta. She pinches the back of her hand. Worthless idiot! The obvious answer was ‘not as handsome you’, but even after all those seduction books she’s read, it hadn’t come to her fast enough to be worth anything. “It makes him look twenty years older. Could he be overcompensating with his hair? Maybe he’s balding. It’s for the best! He’s probably got loads of lice in it.”

...sorry, Ferdinand. She’ll buy him expensive tea later.

The thunderstorm in Caspar’s expression lessens a smidge, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he heads to his large mahogany chair and crashes down on the leathery cushion. He glares at his paperwork, then picks up a sheet.

After a few minutes with the silence broken only by the scratching of a pen and the rustling of paper, Bernadetta moves up to Caspar’s chair. The path ahead is clear. She needs to press him on his motives, like Felix moving in on a faltering enemy. Make him consider why he was so irritated by Ferdinand mentioning an potential engagement that was a decade and a half in the past. Perhaps even make him consider further, about him and her, and their relationship...

The words fumble and die as she reaches for them. Why is it so difficult to force them through her mouth? When she writes, she never falters or lacks for things to say. Pages after pages are easy to compose. Talking is not.

‘W-why you do it?” Bernadetta grips the chair to steady herself. “P-punch Ferdinand, I mean.”

“I dunno,” Caspar crumples a sheet of paper and tosses it into the wastebasket. He makes the shot without looking. “Like I said, he was being annoying. Don’t tell me you never wanted to deck him.”

“Uh...I’ve never wanted to deck anyone.”

“Considering how much time you spend with him, you have the self control of the Goddess,” he grumbles. “Noble this, noble that. Noblest of all nobly nobles.”

A realization hits Bernadetta.

“You...don’t like Ferdinand?”

Caspar shrugs. “I don’t _dislike_ him. We just don’t got anything in common.”

It’s a surprise to her, though it shouldn’t be. Caspar’s best friend is Linhardt, who might be the most intelligent man in the Empire. Unfortunately for Edelgard, Linhardt regards excess work as an unnecessary bother and is thus keen to avoid anyone who‘d press him into doing so, which includes Ferdinand. Caspar, who regularly hangs out with Linhardt, wouldn’t spend much time with Ferdinand either.

“You should try talking to him more.” Ferdinand and Caspar are two of her dearest friends. She doesn’t want them fighting. “He’s really not that bad. He’s...pompous, but he’s super nice! Got a great tea collection.”

Caspar snorts.

Bernadetta steps in front of his chair, forcing him to look at her, and grabs his right hand. His pen clatters to the floor. “Please?”

“Do I have to?” His voice is a petulant whine. “I’d give up beef if I never had to hear him say ‘I am Ferdinand von Aegir’ again!”

“Yes, you do! Please, I...I want you two to get along. He’s important to me, and...” Bernadetta gulps. “...so are you.”

Caspar looks down at her hands enveloping his. Her hands have callouses on the spots where her arrows rest, but his are rough all over from hundreds of fights in which his fists were the weapon of choice.

Fireworks hiss in the distance; Count Bergliez wasn’t going to let his brother’s foolishness prevent him from showing off.

Eventually, Caspar says through gritted teeth, “Okay, okay, if you really want me to...I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

“Ugh...fine, I promise.”

“And no punching!”

“He _needs_ a good punch every now and then! None of the other nobles’ll dare, so it all falls on me!”

Bernadetta pulls his hand to her chest, making him plant his feet on the floor to avoid falling off the chair. “Promise!”

Caspar jerks his head up, meeting her imploring gaze. Though he looks set to argue, the tension in his body eases when their eyes meet.

With a soft sigh, he interlaces his fingers with hers and squeezes her hand. “I promise.”


	4. Nighttime Intruder

“He’s quite slow on the uptake,” says Linhardt.

Bernadetta looks up from her easel. On it lies a sketch of Edelgard and Byleth, an impending gift for their wedding. “Huh?” 

“Caspar, of course.” Linhardt‘s voice holds a mild note of surprise that she didn’t immediately catch onto his random interjection. He blinks at her with that sleepy, vacant stare that infuriated all their past teachers. “In fact, quite is an understatement. Incredibly slow on the uptake is more accurate.”

“Um, y-yeah. Slow. Very. Must drive Edelgard crazy. Nothing to do with Bernie!” Her voice is a squeak. But it’s always a squeak. Linhardt won’t notice. 

But in case he does, Bernadetta shovels her art supplies back into her bag. She hasn’t gotten as far as she wanted to in her painting, but this conversation might be dangerous. Safer to scram until Linhardt moves on to his next flippant observation. 

“On the contrary, I’d say it’s very relevant to you. Unless...” Linhardt puts his book down and rubs his chin. He’s thinking, which the rest of the Adrestian government would celebrate but which Bernadetta curses. Why can’t he save his brainpower for crest research and trade route efficiency instead of directing it towards her!? “Is this supposed to be a secret?”

“No? No! No secrets, nothing of the sort! Bernie’s an open book.”

“Oh, good. Because if it was a secret, your mother and Caspar’s father haven’t kept it well. They are quite loud on the subject.”

“They...what?”

“It surprises me too. Your mother is usually reserved, but she’s very animated when discussing the contracts.”

“W-what contracts are these?” She wraps her canvas and shoves it into her tote. “Is my mother selling me off to be a servant? I knew it! I’m going to be a punching bag, aren’t I? The Bergliez children have terrorized too many trainers, and they can’t find any other fool to hit!“

“Nothing so...violent. Merely the standard marriage contracts.”

Bernadetta drops her bag. Paintbrushes spill onto the grass.

“House Varley and House Bergliez have been clever enough to remain powerful even after Edelgard’s reforms. An alliance between them will benefit both, but the small details need ironing out. Renegotiation of the trading pacts, what if any territory lines should be redrawn, if your children will also be in line for the Bergliez title. You know.” Linhardt waves his hand in a vague motion. “The usual.”

Bernadetta’s mouth hangs open. “My _mother_ has been discussing this in _public_!?!”

“Well, not exactly. The first time I overheard them talking, it was more of a whispered conversation. I suspect they thought I was asleep.”

She tries to picture the scene: her uptight, composed mother talking with the rambunctious former Minister of Military Affairs. Her imagination proves insufficient, and the scene dissolves in her mind. She hadn’t thought they knew each other!

“But the discussions have become increasingly cacophonous. I was discussing spy reports with Hubert, and we heard their argument even in our barricaded room. Likely as time marches on without a formalized proposal, they grow more and more comfortable with discussing such matters in the open.”

“Which brings me back to my point.” Linhardt nods, the satisfied academic reciting his thesis. “I’ve known Caspar for seventeen years. Hints and subtlety are lost on him. A direct approach is the one to choose. Shoot the arrow instead of laying the trap, as they say.”

Bernadetta swallows. Say something. She needs to say something. Throw him off the trail. Oh! There ran a rat - could she shoot it and throw it in his face?

“If you like, I could tell him for you.”

“I - NO!”

Linhardt covers his ears. His book falls, joining her paintbrushes. “Duly noted. But do see that you expedite the matter? I am patient enough to wait for things to happen organically. However, Dorothea is attempting to convince Edelgard to sign an official marriage document and let you two figure it out later.”

* * *

Caspar grabs Bernadetta by the waist and slams his mouth against hers.

Bernadetta is aware it’s a dream, because she’s had them before. She’d thought they were real the first dozen times or so, when her hopes were higher that she’d get some official confirmation that Caspar reciprocated her feelings. Now, years later from the first of these dreams and long past the date she’d thought she’d be married by, she knows better. 

But she’ll take what she can get. 

Bernadetta leans into him. Under the ferocity of his attack, they crash onto the floor. Soft grasses tickle her back. Caspar breaks off the kiss and pushes himself into a crouch. Nudging her thighs apart, he lowers his mouth. Her back arches before he even touches her. Bernadetta trembles, waiting for his mouth to reach her, wanting him, what is taking so long—

With a sudden spasm, Bernadetta jolts awake.

The flowering meadow disappears. She’s on her bed, blanket bunched at her foot where she’d kicked it off sometime during the night. Panting, she rubs her eyes, disheveled and stupefied. 

That’s...not when she usually wakes, with the heat between her legs pulsating unrelieved. Why...

In a heartbeat, Bernadetta clamors to the wall and puts her ear against it. Faint, but getting louder at an alarming speed, are the heavy thuds of armored boots on stone—

—and her mind flashes. She’s in the same place in a different time. Her father’s footsteps resounding through the halls. Usually light and delicate like any proper nobleman’s but made heavy by drink. Thump, thump, thump. A younger Bernadetta shivering beside her bed, huddled in a ball. Her hands clasped around her head, trying to drown out the vibrations through the castle. Knowing what’s coming next. Her bruises throbbing, not yet healed from the last time her father over indulged in alcohol. She hadn’t been quiet enough, hadn’t been proper enough, hadn’t been a good enough noblewoman, and her father had never let her inadequacies slide.

A tear trickles down her cheek, and she returns to the present. Bernadetta wipes her face and grimaces.

She is a different woman now.  
  
Bernadetta unhooks her bow from the rack and swings her quiver over a shoulder. With quiet feet, she slinks behind the curtains. Draped in darkness, she aims her bow at the door. 

The doorknob rustles, and the door opens. Faint torchlight streams into the room. Bernadetta fires an arrow into that crack of light. She has another arrow notched and aimed while her first is still in flight. 

The arrow hits. 

“Oof!” A startled voice. The figure staggers and drops a large package. It crashes onto the floor.

Bernadetta jerks her bow upward. The second arrow ricochets off a painting, cracking the glass.

“C-Caspar!?” She drops her bow and dashes towards him.

The arrow sticks into his side. Caspar gingerly massages the area around it. Where’s his his armor!?

She pulls him inside and fumbles at her drawers for a concoction. Before she can force it down his throat, Caspar yanks the arrow out. Blood squirts from the wound. Gasping, Bernadetta drops the concoction, but a misty blue light surrounds Caspar. The gaping hole closes. 

Oh...yeah. He can do that.

Bernadetta instead pulls out an embroidered handkerchief and dabs at the blood. 

Caspar attempts to push her hands away. “It’s just a little blood, no big deal. Don’t wanna ruin your stuff.”

“I-it is a big deal!” Bernadetta snakes around his hands and wipes off the last of his blood. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it! Please forgive me! You can shoot an arrow at me, to quench any sparks for revenge!”

“Uh, I’d probably miss. Besides, it was kinda my fault.” His sheepish grin draws her attention to his mouth, reminding Bernadetta of what he’d been about to do with it in her dream. She ducks her head, praying to the Goddess that her blush would be hidden in the shadows. “I forgot I should’ve knocked. Didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry!”

The full, absurd situation reasserts itself. 

Caspar is here.

In her room.

At night.

After a strangled cough, Bernadetta valiantly attempts to rally anger. What was it that Hubert said? If you pretend long enough, the pretense can become reality? That’s right, this deep, aching dissatisfaction in her core is anger. Anger. Right!

She puts her hands on her hips and forces a glare on her face. “Y-yeah, w-what are you even doing here!?” In the romance novels she read with Sylvain, there’s only one reason to visit someone’s room while the moon and stars are out. But this is Caspar. She doubts he knows that particular social convention. “Y-you can’t go around invading people’s homes in the middle of the night! Though...wait a minute...“

Bernadetta does a quick calculation of the time passed since she’s seen him last and the distances between the cities in Fódlan. Every member of the Black Eagle Strike Force has the continental maps memorized. “Why aren’t you in Airmid?”

“I went on ahead.” Caspar yawned. “Everyone else was being so slow. They wanted to rest up at every single city we passed! And that blasted horse kept eating my lunch. So I told ‘em to keep that beast and I’d meet them in Enbarr.”

Bernadetta gawks. “But to get here from Derdiru on foot...“ A pause as her mental calculator finishes the math. Since the treaty negotiations happened on the twelfth... “...you’d have had to march nineteen - no, twenty hours on foot a day for a week!”

“Yup!” Caspar puffs his chest out, a slight motion that might have been missed if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. “Remind me to mention it to Linhardt. I bet I’ve set some sort of record.”

Goddess, his smile is infectious. The small part of her that genuinely was irritated, for waking her up and inadvertently dredging up memories of her terrifying childhood, evaporates in the face of Caspar’s unshakable cheer. Her own lips twitch upward. “The talk with Claude went well then?”

“He’s got Almyra wrapped around his finger. They’ve promised to stop attacking Fódlan’s Throat, so General Goneril’s gonna need a new hobby. We drew up some maps for joint military exercises, then Ferdinand and him started discussing trade tariffs. I, uh...took a quick nap during that part.“ 

Bernadetta laughs. “Linhardt’ll be more proud of you for that than for your sleep-deprived speed walking.”  
  
“He’s always had his priorities backward,” smirks Caspar. 

This is comfortable. It’s so easy to talk to Caspar, to joke with him and make small talk - things she’s gotten better at but never relishes. It’s like talking to Byleth, but also different. With Byleth, she wants to push herself, . Caspar makes her believe that she’s good enough as she is. 

“I...missed you,” she admits, clutching her blood-soaked handkerchief to her chest. “It’s too quiet at court without you.”

The teasing glint in Caspar’s eyes remain, but his gaze intensifies. It grows bolder, almost smoldering, the cerulean tint hypnotizing in the dim light.

Bernadetta stares back, mouth ajar, and is suddenly very aware that the remnants of her desire linger between her legs.

“I missed you too,” he says. His gaze travels downward. Tracing her body.

Which is in a short, lacy nightshift that’s perfect for the hot summer nights because its translucent silk doesn’t cover much.

With a piercing shriek, Bernadetta shoves Caspar. The weight difference is substantial, but surprise gives her the advantage. He tumbles into her closet. She slams the door shut and pulls her chest in front of it, blocking the exit.

“Bernadetta?” He pounds on the door. “Um, what’re you doing?” The door bulges outward. The chest inches away.

“S-stop!” Bernadetta tugs her sheets off her bed and drapes it over herself. “You can’t see me like this!”

“I’ve already seen you!” protests Caspar, but the pressure on the door ceases.

“S-scrub your mind of the indecent image! These clothes are a disgrace to the Goddess!” Why oh why did she have to wear this tonight? A thousand curses upon Dorothea for giving it to her! ”I’ll burn them immediately!“

“Why? You look good in it.”

“I...I...” splutters Bernadetta. A quick glance at her mirror proves she’s as red as Edelgard’s armor. But this is an opening, isn’t it? No possible room for even her to misinterpret? “I-it’s...I-I’m...”

“Aren’t your clothes in here anyways? How’re you gonna change out there”

Bernadetta freezes for a split second, then yelps and dives into the closet, hauls Caspar out, and shuts the door behind her.

Heart pounding, she grabs the longest dress (which is still above her knees; Bernadetta prefers short dresses for better running potential) and tugs it over her head. Her skin’s sensitive, and the smooth silk sends shudders through her body. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her fingers itch to relieve the pressure within her, and she brushes them through her hair to distract herself.

When she’s satisfied she won’t jump Caspar’s bones, Bernadetta opens the door. She heads toward her stool and sits with her ankles crossed. She is a noble woman and (reluctant) heir to House Varley, not a sex-hungry demonic succubus. 

Caspar sits cross legged on the floor next to the package he’d dropped when she shot him. He has the decency to look chagrined. Holding his hands up, he says, “Sorry, sorry, I was excited to see you again and didn’t think this through.”

“Clearly,” sniffs Bernadetta, channeling the aura of those pretentious, arrogant noble ladies that Edelgard had taxed out of existence. 

“I promise I won’t visit you at night anymore.”

Bernadetta leaps to her feet. The noble facade crumples. “I didn’t say that! You can still visit at night. O-or anytime! J-just knock! A-at the front door. Notify the guards. Maybe send a letter first. Really, I don’t mind!”

Caspar does a double take but recovers and beams at her. “Oh, okay. I can do that. Knock, guards, letter. Deal.”

She nods. “E-exactly. Keep visiting.”

“Will do!” He pushes the package toward her. “C’mon, open this up! I brought you this from Derdiru.”

Bernadetta kneels and rips apart the packaging (doing her best not to think of the clothes she’d rather be tearing off) to reveal a tank filled to the brim. Ten small fish swim inside.

Adrestian fish are dull, with muted colors suited for camouflage. At Garreg Mach, Byleth had managed to catch some more colorful fish, but none of them had the bright colors of these ten. Each one was dappled with crimson reds and brilliant golds and deep blacks in intricate patterns.

“They can get big, two feet or more.” Caspar gestures with his hands to approximate the size. “You have that pond in your gardens. When I saw these, I thought of you right away.”

“They’re beautiful!” She dips her hand in the tank and touches one of the fish. Its scales are smooth and slimy, and it doesn’t swim away from her the way wild fish do. She removes her hand and pushes at the tank. It doesn’t budge. “You...carried this? From Derdiru. On foot.”

“It worked out perfectly.” Caspar grins. “Since I was moving so quickly, I couldn’t waste any time training. Carrying this doubled as my workout.”

Caspar, running through grasslands with a tank balanced precariously on his head. Bernadetta stifles a laugh - her imagination likely isn’t far from the truth. “Thank you. I-I’m not worthy, but I’ll pay you back tenfold. A hundredfold!”

“You’ll come with me to Derdiru next time?”

Derdiru, the aquatic capital. She’s been there the single time, as a conqueror, but never to see its raging waterfalls, to taste its local seafood, to shop its famous markets. Though she’d no longer give anything to stay put in her room, she doesn’t push herself to seek out new experiences (Edelgard and Byleth fling enough of those at her). The longing to travel isn’t in her the way it is in Caspar. But with him at her side...

“Of course. I’ll go with you. Anywhere,” she says, voice soft and sincere. 

“Great, I’ve got so much to show you.” With arms outstretched he yawns, a longer one than his last. Since they’re alone, Bernadetta is free to admire the ripples of his muscles without fear of rumor cascading its way through Fódlan. “I’d better head out. Sorry again for interrupting your sleep, I promise I’ll look at a watch next time.”

“W-where are you going?” asks Bernadetta. She grabs a fistful of his shirt. She’s not ready to let go of him, not yet.

With another yawn, he says, “I wanna stop by Bergliez territory to say hi to my father and brother before I head off to Enbarr.” 

“B-but sleep is important! Didn’t Linhardt tell you about that study he did on sleep? People who didn’t get enough are more likely to fall off horses and unleash random fireballs!”

Caspar raises an eyebrow. “We sure he didn’t make that up so Edelgard will let him sleep more?”

“Edelgard would have his head if he tried to forge his research! He’s waaay too lazy to deal with an angry Edelgard.”

“You have a point.” He yawns yet again and tilts his head. “Where’s the closest inn to here?”

“Y-you, umm...” Her mouth is dry. Bernadetta flicks her tongue over her lips and raises a quivering hand to her bed. “Y-you can nap here, f-for a little bit. U-until morning.” Wait, what time does her mother get up? “O-or maybe a little before that. Um. Sunrise. T-that should be long enough to make sure you don’t spontaneously combust!”

Caspar gives her a puzzled look. “Don’t you wanna sleep too?”

“I-it’s a big bed. W-we could share. If you want. B-but if you don’t, it’s cool! Bernie likes the floor. It’s hard. B-better for your back!”

“Nah, Linhardt always chooses mattresses overstuffed with feathers, and he’s the expert. Let’s share.” Caspar takes off his ripped shirt and throws it on the floor.

A moan escapes her. Horrified, Bernadetta slams a palm over her mouth.

Luckily, sleep deprivation must’ve dulled Caspar’s senses; he doesn’t react to her whimpering. He plops into her bed, turns his head, and closes his eyes. Adrenaline must’ve masked his tiredness during his travels, because he’s asleep as soon as he hits the bed.

Bernadetta holds still for a count of hundred, then follows after. She crawls into bed but doesn’t attempt to fall asleep, settling instead for staring wide-eyed at Caspar’s form.

When his snores fill the room, Bernadetta takes out her drawing pad. With fast, frantic strokes, she draws Caspar sleeping in her bed.

* * *

Countess Varley - technically Regent Varley, but Bernadetta is putting off her own claim to the title for as long as Edelgard will let her get away with - is a stern, dispassionate woman. She is efficient and tidy and not given to kind words or gestures.

But she is family, and she rescued Bernadetta from her father by sending her to Garreg Mach. After Bernadetta shoos Caspar away, she and her mother take breakfast in an expensively furnished dining room. Servants bring frosted pastries and sizzling sausages and cheesy eggs and, bizarrely, a foul-smelling tea.

Bernadetta wrinkles her nose. Her mother prefers green teas, plain though sometimes with a drop of lemon juice or a slice of ginger. This swirling miasma of herbs and the mud brown color is off-putting. 

“Raven Cress tea.” At Bernadetta’s blank look - she likes plants, but her specialty is the carnivorous kind - Countess Varley adds, “To prevent pregnancy.”

What.

“WHAT!?”

“I am still negotiating contracts with House Bergliez,” says Countess Varley with supreme unconcern, as if they’d discussed this so often the novelty had worn off. “Though we expect an heir at some point, a child now would be an unneeded complication to the discussions. Furthermore, I do not wish to grant Count Bergliez any advantage due to a premarital pregnancy.” 

Her mother knows Caspar was here last night. And, oh goddess, she thinks that...

“N-nothing happened last night!” squeals Bernadetta. “I am a pure maiden, l-like the snow! I mean, the clean kind, from the top of the mountains. Not the slush in Enbarr’s streets during winter!”

Countess Varley gives her a look so dripping in scorn that a familial relation to Hubert seems plausible. “Let us not waste time with these childish denials. You are an adult, and I accept that brings certain...urges. You have chosen well with Caspar von Bergliez, especially in light of his new position. However, we must take the standard precautions to prevent a child until the marriage is settled.”

“But I’m not - we didn’t! Nothing! Happened!”

“Very well. I believe you.” A blatant lie. Her mother rolls her eyes in the most un-Countess-like action Bernadetta has ever seen her mother take. “Nonetheless, you will drink the tea, and you will do so every time the second Bergliez son visits.”

Unable to see a path out of this nightmare, Bernadetta chokes the tea down. It tastes like it looks, acrid and bitter. She slams the empty tea cup onto the table, earning her a disapproving glare from her mother.

Bernadetta wipes her mouth. “W-why’re you thinking about this at all!? The guards didn’t know a stranger was waltzing through our house! Why aren’t you firing everyone!?”

“Caspar von Bergliez is not a subtle man. Of course our guards saw him coming.” Countess Varley picks up her own tea cup with two hands and sips it in a demonstration of perfect table manners. “They alerted me at once. But I determined it was in House Varley’s best interest to let him proceed unaccosted. In fact, I applaud your enthusiasm in ensuring Caspar’s interest in you is maintained, even if your methods are...crude.”

“Oh sweet merciful death, please take me in your loving embrace...”

“Bernadetta, cease your mumbling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re approaching the endgame now, should be one or two chapters left. Thanks everyone for coming along with me in this rarepair ride!


End file.
